


I Can't See Myself in the Mirror

by TheMaw



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Artistic Liberties, Dealing with Psychological Trauma, Disassociating due to psychological trauma, Emotional Baggage, Vague Spoilers, Vague spoilers for Lostbelt IV and the identity of Kamadeva, no Master of Chaldea can get through all these events without something breaking, on the verge of not canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:13:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26662753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMaw/pseuds/TheMaw
Summary: She was standing on the precipice of a calamity. A familiar state to be, residing in the space between the night and day, between the beginning of something and nothing. Wrapped up in the overwhelming feeling of existing, of being, of something and wanting so desperately to be nothing. Not to be seen and known or named and breathing. She didn't want to be a hero or a villain. To be anything.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	I Can't See Myself in the Mirror

She was standing on the precipice of a calamity. A familiar state to be, residing in the space between the night and day, between the beginning of something and nothing. Wrapped up in the overwhelming feeling of existing, of being, of something and wanting so desperately to be nothing. Not to be seen and known or named and breathing. She didn't want to be a hero or a villain. To be anything.

Her legs trembled, buckled, and she found herself forcing her way into a crouch, arms reflexively curling around her knees. She was crouching like a child, a coward, staring into the swirling void of reality, the endless expanse of space, the crowded display of stars that would, could, and should wink out of existence. She was surrounded on all sides, and yet all at once alone. Her connection severed. No servants, no friends, no gentle or cruel or cunning voices in her head.

She just needed to rest.

Sunset colored hair swirled around her, all at once too long or too short or just in-between. Her skin, dark and sun kissed, or pale and moon kissed. Moon blessed. Scars seared her back, her body a display of innumerable impossible fractures, cuts and bruises. Bones decimated by unknowable violence. Organs battered by unthinkable violence. She was a crime against humanity. A crime against herself.

She just needed a little break.

Her head tipped forward until it rested upon her knees, body contorting to fit the uncomfortable position, and she breathed in, breathed out. She wanted to vanish. To fall head first into nothingness. Sink to the bottom of the deep blue sea. Give her voice to a cruel naga, eat the flesh of a dying mermaid and exist eternally in the crushing void. Deep down in the marina trench. Far away from the sun, the light, and all that could be, would be touched by the gentle embrace of life.

"Ara ara," honey sweet, poisoned tongue, "your hair has gotten so long. It's almost as long as mine." Her hair is lifted away from her neck, and she feels the cool air seep into her hot, sun warmed skin. She isn't repulsed by the demonic bodhisattva. She's not intrigued either. Slender fingers comb through the red-orange hair, thick and straight, and yet still somehow so soft and smooth. She is gentle as she tugs apart knots and kinks, not pulling. It's startling. It's nice? Pleasant?

"Ugh, of course you're here," this voice is different, more firm. Not nearly as light and airy as her other half. The other Beast. But Sayo doesn't open her gaze to confirm. Doesn't lift her head to see. She doesn't flinch when star dust hands wrap around her ankles, draw her knees away from her face. Kiara catches her chin with those sea chilled hands. She must be burning to her. The sea drenched Beast. Not like the star burst Beast who has begun to rub the tension out of her calves. As though she should be cared for like Vishnu, head resting upon lotus palms, and legs draped upon Lakshmi's lap, her hands petal soft rubbing, kneading, tending to her husband's calves. As though she were deserving of such a place. It was laughable.

Kama inhales sharply, and she is probably looking up at Kiara with a million questions. How does a literal Evil of Humanity, a Beast of Calamity, perceive her? Do they see all the scars, the impossible violence, which has run so deep it's shredding her soul? Do they see the way each servant called forth for a fleeting moment takes a chunk out of her mind, body, and soul?

Is the light fading away?

"You think too much," the amalgamation groans. But there's something gentle in the way she speaks, as though she is trying to lull her, soothe her. And she is falling backwards, head falling into the lap of the other. Her hair has been fanned out, draped across the bodhisattva's legs. Sayo doesn't open her eyes when gentle fingers begin to rub her temples. "Rest your mind, or else you will never be free. Not here or there."

Some part of her screams that she shouldn't. Some part of her screams that she was in danger, more so than ever before. That part of her which wants to remain, which wants to fight and exist and something, anything. And it's so hard to ignore that voice. It's so hard to ignore the heat of Kama's hands working into shredded muscles and powdered bones. And it's hard to ignore the chilled fingers working gently at the muscles in her face, torn and burned and damaged beyond repair. Visible to no one, and felt so deeply, so truly, how could she deny it? How could anyone say it wasn't true?

By Shiva, she was falling to pieces, held together so desperately by a thread. She was coming undone, vanishing, fading, falling away.

But at some point the world goes blank, and she is floating, drifting in the nothingness. Caught between what is and isn't. Between existence and nonexistence. She is drifting, hot and cold, the heat of space and the sopping wet chill of ocean. And she doesn't know if she's whole or not. If she wants to be, could ever be.

When her eyes open at last, it is because of sharp little knees and elbows digging into her stomach, her side. She shifts on her cot, arm carefully draping over the tiny, fragile form of Jack. Of the amalgamation of countless child souls and the death of some whores. Prostitutes. It's all the same. 

Sayo blinks once, twice, a third time, realizing she is in her cot on the Shadowborder, and Rem is sleeping in the cot across from her, blue hair cascading across her pillow.


End file.
